


Photographs Of Dementia

by Senket



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Post The Great Game, Twisted
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-11-07
Packaged: 2017-11-15 16:37:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/529346
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Senket/pseuds/Senket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sebastian takes care of Jim while he recovers from the explosion after the pool. And then things get complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Photographs Of Dementia

Jim woke slowly; before he even opened his eyes, he felt pain flare all over his body, pinpricks of heat. He gulped in a large breath, quickly discovering what a mistake he had made as fire engulfed his lungs. He cried out weakly, twisting on his side. It hardly helped. Everything hurt.

Loud and quick footsteps assaulted his ears. Sensory overload, too much, too fast, and that wasn't a problem he was used to having. He usually had ways to deal with it, but none worked: he couldn't regulate his breathing because each inhale burned, couldn't concentrate on a single sensation because it was all a great flame of agony, couldn't draw inwards and think out a clever puzzle to distract himself because his mind was a jumble of tangled threads.

Dimly aware of rustling near his head, he flinched away, tried to count seconds and found that he couldn't. Loud and quick footsteps moved away: at least he was alone again. No, that was assuming he'd been alone to begin with, and he wasn't able to tell, not at the moment. That was perhaps the most distressing news of all. He stayed, quaking on his side, for as long as possibly forever before a wave of nothing washed over him, cool emptiness against the heat of pain. A second rushed over him, then a fourth, stronger and longer, and at the fourth he fell back into darkness.

x

When he woke again it was to cramping in his stomach but it felt distant, barely real. He opened his eyes cautiously, heeding the sudden pain that had hit him last time he had woken but found only a dull throb. For a moment he thought he was hanging from the ceiling. A face appeared at a ninety degree angle and he scrambled to make sense of it. No, he was sticking to the wall. Yes, that had to be it. It explained everything.

The face was out of focus, blurring and twisting at the edges, but Jim was sure it was familiar. It couldn't possibly be his mother because she couldn't look bored like that and, anyway, whatever woman had a jaw like that would be an awfully ugly woman indeed. He beamed at it: a strange feeling, like his porcelain cheeks were cracking, yet distant. "Hi."

His voice sounded misshapen, dry and high and low all at once, and it came out of his mouth in lavender. The face merely rose an eyebrow at him, looking unimpressed and irritated. He probably giggled at the expression. He found it hard to be completely certain: he heard a rasping cough instead but didn't feel it.

The other man rolled (very brown) eyes and spoke; Jim watched, fascinated, as the lips moved soundlessly, followed by a sound on delay, like a badly dubbed film. "Idiot."

He giggled again, hugging his hands to his chest. "Moron!" He answered in a gleeful mauve. The face blurred out of sight. He heard the exasperated sigh a minute later.

x

When he woke up again it was to acute pangs in his stomach. The washed-out someone-else's-pain had grown to a dull undercurrent. He was aware of it in every movement, knowing it could easily overtake him any second, but it was held back by a cool vagueness. He stared at the ceiling for a long moment, categorizing, recognizing. It was white and stippled, the uneven colour of the rarely-clean, dusty cobwebs drifting in the corners. The walls were the same, a crackling eggshell that clearly hadn't been refreshed in years, bare of any decoration. The room was empty but for him, the bed, a bedside table and an IV hook, a clear liquid rhythmically dripping into the tube that disappeared into the crook of his elbow.

Eventually he dragged himself to a sitting position, leaning against the wall and gathering fat uncovered pillows under him. "I'm hungry," he called out to the room at large.

A bag of jerky flew out of left field and hit him in the shoulder. Jim yelped in surprise. He stared down at the object with a frown before throwing it to the foot of the bed. Ugh, peppered. Some people had terrible taste. Huffing, he crossed his arms and slumped, eyes narrowing into slits as he turned his gaze back to the door. "Childish. Real food now, please."

Moran rolled his eyes. The sniper was leaning against the doorframe, one hand jammed in fraying, faded jeans, knees worn down to white thread where they weren't torn outright. A cigarette dangled from his lips, grey-white smoke curling against his cheek in wisps.

"I thought I told you to stop smoking near me," Jim told him haughtily, looking put out indeed.

Sebastian crossed his arms across a broad chest. "My flat," he muttered around the obstruction, making absolutely no move to rectify the situation.

"If you really think a few papers will stop me from having you evicted, do let me know so that I might clear up your misconstructions."

"Whatever," Sebastian grouched, rolling his eyes. He lifted himself away from the doorway and disappeared.

When Moran re-emerged a few minutes later, it was with a plate of beans, toast and sausage links. The cigarette was gone and he was, instead, steadily chewing on a stick of mint gum. Moriarty smirked at him before turning his attention to the food; he made a disgusted face at the plate as he took it, prodding bean gravy with his fork. "I forgot you have no taste."

"I doubt it."

"At least call that Italian place I like."

"Eat your food."

x

The next time Jim woke up it was writhing in pain, wet eyes making everything around him blurry, ears ringing with the volume of his own shouts. The rhythm of Moran's steps as the man ran in, swearing viciously, were mere half-notes to the quintuple beat of Moriarty's own heart. By the time the pain receded again, he had faded back into blackness.

x

Moriarty snapped awake to the sound of an unfamiliar voice, going completely still. He felt sick and disoriented, pain just bad enough to make him want to roll over and heave but not quite unbearable. He tried to listen but the words were a jumbled mess and all he could think was that he didn't recognize it and it was wrong and oh god who was touching him get off get off.

He lost control of his breath in his panic, fast staccato inhales that did nothing to get oxygen to his bloodstream. When fingers pressed against his throat he lashed out automatically, throwing himself at his assailant, shouting abuse as he attacked blindly.

Strong arms closed around his torso from behind and Jim started to scream, thrashing his feet, scratching, kicking, and trying to get at anything he could bite.

"Jim!"

No, he wasn't going to get caught, nobody was going to take him away, put him anywhere, not in jail, not in hospital, not in a ward, not again, no.

"Jim, STOP. Jim."

That voice.

"Jim, calm the fuck down!"

He trusted that voice.

Jim went limp, knuckles white where he wrapped his fingers around the arms locked around his torso, holding on.

That voice had saved him more times than he cared to count (from death, eight, but-) and it was better to follow on instinct than to think about. If he'd stopped and considered every time Moran instructed him, he'd have had three distinct bullets lodged in his head.

"Fuck, Jimmy," the larger man muttered, helping his 'employer' back into the bed. "This is Gordon Lauder. He's a friend of mine, and he's been patching you up. Unless you'd rather be in hospital, you ought to let him."

Moriarty kept one eye on the doctor as the stranger nursed his jaw. He huddled against the wall, fingers wrapped in a death-grip on Moran's wrist. The sniper didn't comment on it, sitting at the edge of the mattress with a sigh.

x

"I'm bored," Moriarty whined, still confined to this damn bed with uncovered pillows, scratchy blankets and lumpy down comforters.

"I'm sick of babysitting you," Moran grumbled back, perched on the windowpane with a cigarette dangling from his lips and a laptop balancing on his lap, probably doing something completely useless- solitaire or browsing porn or something.

"Why can't I have a laptop?"

"Because you're not supposed to work, and I know what you can do with one."

Jim tried to glare the will out of his subordinate, but it didn't seem to be working. Instead he threw a pillow at him. His aim was bad and his arm was weaker than he was used to- it sailed over Moran's head and smacked the wall with a dull thud before falling to the floor with a plop. Sebastian never looked up, but Jim could clearly see him smirk around his cigarette. He crossed his arms and slumped against the wall, keeping narrowed eyes on the other man's figure. "I hate you."

"I hate you more," Moran quipped back carelessly, brushing ashes off his jeans and out the window, into the street.

"Your bed sucks."

"As long as you are in my bed, I am on the couch, so keep your mouth shut."

"It's not my fault you suck at your job."

"It's not my fault motherfucking Holmes took you by surprise," Moran answered back dully; the affected undercurrent gave him away. Even with their supposed safeguards everything had gone terribly wrong. When Moran managed to dig his boss out of the rubble, his face had been white and smeared with chalk, chest still. Moriarty's pulse had been so weak Moran had barely been able to detect it.

For a heart-stopping moment, he'd honestly thought the Irishman had died. After getting him to a safe place, after getting whatever emergency support he could, after arranging for Lauder to fly in, after finding a black line to some morphine, after not sleeping, not stopping until Moriarty had stabilized, he'd drunk everything he could bear and passed into the worst sleep he'd had in his life. He didn't like how it felt. Not one bit.

Moriarty was an expert in people: he noticed. He heard. For a long, terrible, ugly moment he stared at the man whose bed he was sleeping in, the man he'd recruited three years ago for being a supreme shot and a better bodyguard. They were psychopaths the both of them and psychopaths did not love, least of all each other. "Honeybear," he called with forced delight, "why, I didn't know you cared!"

Jim knew he'd made a mistake the moment Sebastian lifted his head to stare back at him, eyes winter-cold. He flinched but couldn't look away, shrinking against the wall as dark eyes bore into him, clutched the pillow nearest to him as though it could help.

Moran shut his laptop with a snap and, without tearing his eyes away, stalked to the bed. Mechanically, methodically, he removed the bag of painkillers from its hook, disconnected it. He took it out of the room with him and never looked back.

x

Next Jim woke was screaming with agony, twisting and arching, banging his hands and feet against the wall. He sobbed and cried and begged, writhing- pushed his face against the pillow, howled until his throat was raw, pled for release, for mercy. He felt his body burn from the inside out, felt the fires of hell, felt them forever. Felt them until he felt nothing at all.

x

When Moriarty woke up again, it was to an empty room. Painkillers dripped faithfully into the tube in his arm and a plate of food waited for him on the folding table by his bedside. Aside from that, there was only stale silence. He ate with resignation and stared at the wall until he found himself falling asleep again.

He woke up alone again the next time- and the next, and the next after that.

The thirteenth time Moriarty woke in Moran's bed, the other man was in the opposite corner of the undecorated room with a white sheet spread on the floor, every single one of his guns in pieces before him as he methodically cleaned them part by part before putting them back together.

"Where've you been?" Jim asked sharply, glaring sullenly.

Sebastian didn't acknowledge his presence, continuing his task without a word.

Jim was tired and ill and the dull throb had never gone away; he felt nauseous and hungry and aching, trapped in a body that wouldn't move right and couldn't leave this stupid bed. He had a tube in his arm and more in unmentionable places, a doctor he didn't even know and he generally felt filthy. Worst of all his mind felt stagnant and dumb, that feature that made him the best among criminals (among men) suppressed by the only thing keeping him from incoherent screaming.

"I hate you."

Sebastian continued to ignore him. Jim threw a pillow at him and missed (again).

"You look like a wet dog half the time."

Sebastian glanced at him once, without raising his head, snorting with disbelief at the weak insult. It spurred a dark anger in Jim- clearly he just had to hit harder.

"I can't believe you left me in here by myself. I was so bored I thought I would die. Although I guess you being in here isn't really much better. Do you think if I just had you to talk to all day my IQ would drop until I had yours? Oh god, that'd be horrible, a chair could outwit me. And you have terrible taste. You smell like stale cigarettes and your bed is disgusting." Jim heard his voice rise. He knew maybe he was getting hysterical but he'd never cared before and he was certainly too angry to care now. He was wasting his time in here, wasting his brain, wasting away. "What does a man have to do around here to get real help anyway?"

Moran's movements were becoming sharper, jerkier as he moved, but still he kept his head bowed, his eyes on his work, refusing to acknowledge Moriarty.

"You are the worst fucking lackey I have had in my life. Listen to me, I sound like an inbred American now because of you and your idiotic doctor. What sort of complete moron would you have to be to leave Britain for that shit place anyway? Your kind, apparently," he spat. "You're completely useless. It's a miracle I'm alive at all, with you as my bodyguard."

His last words were punctuated with a slam- the sound of Moran's right fist driving into the floor. He fell silent, uneasy as he watched the man stand. Sebastian had always had an atrocious time hiding the way he felt about things from Jim because of how telling his body language could be. It helped, most of the time, to have Moran be his voice, the face of the Moriarty Empire.

Who would dare get through Moran to reach Moriarty when Moran looked like that, broad shoulders tense, rough, able hands clenched at his sides, brows furrowed and dark over flashing eyes, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Who would dare stand in his way?

Moran moved towards the bed without making a single whisper of sound; Jim shivered, looking up at the tall man, pressing himself against the wall.

There were ways of knowing what mood Moran was in aside from sight alone. Sometimes he would stomp around gracelessly, shooting whatever he saw- then he was merely a grunt, bad-tempered and rude. Moving as silently as a panther in the underbrush made Sebastian Moran a hunter, a killer. It was what made him the infamous assassin that Moriarty had personally tracked down and hired all those years ago.

"Sebastian," he tried, but it only came out as a breathless whimper. He heard the click before he felt the sensation of friction-warmed metal.

Moran leaned over him, an arm against the wall to keep him balanced as he pressed a thin barrel again the underside of Jim's jaw, forcing his head to tilt up until he was looking into the other man's cold, dark eyes. "The next time you feel like dying," Sebastian spoke, his voice soft, low and passionless, almost flat, "let me know. I'll do the job I was actually trained for."

Moriarty felt the intellect-dulling rise of panic overtake him, his breath and pulse speeding without consent with those hunter's eyes on him and that gun so solid against him. He'd never been Moran's prey before, not seriously, not like this, not when there was something at stake.

Moran regarded him coldly, face blank, empty of expression. "Maybe you'd rather die now."

"Sebastian, please-" his breath caught when the other man pushed his head back further again the wall. Moriarty flinched full-bodied at the sound of the hammer going back, staring pleadingly at the expressionless man.

Moran stared down at him, patient, waiting. Moriarty's pulse became erratic, his breathing almost non-existent. He was too muddled to get out of the situation. Even if he hadn't been bedridden, he never would've had a chance of escaping Moran, not if he'd had a hundred miles head start.

"When did I load it?"

The question startled him so badly for a moment he feared he'd already been shot and he hadn't noticed. "What?"

"When did I load it?"

Moriarty swallowed, shrinking away as his mind tried to work through the cottony muddle of painkillers and fear. He didn't know, he hadn't been paying attention, he'd been too busy trying to get a rise out of him he- no, no, it wasn't true, he was never too busy doing one thing, he wasn't some common clerk somewhere his mind was magnificent it was only, oh god he couldn't do anything right now, no, no, think Jimmy think, Sebastian had been cleaning his guns oh fuck the gun under his chin was Moriarty's, Sebastian had given it to him last year, taught him how to use it, how to maintain it. Jim had refused to take care of it, had haughtily demanded that Sebastian add it to his routine and the man had, kept it cleaned and primed and shit, Jim barely remembered how to load it why was he so bad, no he didn't need it, he liked to keep his hands out of the business, his face, it was only for Sherlock, Sherlock had gotten him into this mess- no, that wasn't fair, he'd drawn Sherlock into this mess because he'd been bored, he'd even left his pistol at home, all cocky, knowing he'd have snipers in the wings, knowing Sebastian would be just outside waiting for him, knowing, oh fuck no he was getting off-track, he was losing it, fuck, he'd been watching he was ALWAYS watching, what was the answer. Sebastian had been cleaning his guns and putting them back together, what was on that sheet? Parts and rags and gun oil and- oh. Oh. That was all, that was everything, there was nothing else.

Jim Moriarty drew in a deep, shuddering breath, letting his eyes fall shut, letting himself sink against the wall where he'd been tense as a wire a moment before. "You didn't."

"I didn't," Moran agreed blandly as he turned away, tossing the gun onto the bedside table.

Not boring, Jim thought with a dazed blink, swallowing hard. Not boring at all, his Sebastian Moran. He reached out to stop him leaving, fingers outstretched. He hung there in silence for a moment before he pushed himself forward, closing bony fingers around the other man's wrist.

In an instant he found himself flat against the wall again, one of Sebastian's hands cradling his head, keeping it from smacking into plaster, the other against his hip. The taller man pushed up against him, kissing with hard desperation. "Idiot," he growled against Jim's rapidly reddening lips, fingers tightening enough to hurt the already-injured man, "you complete fucking idiot."

Jim clawed at the back of Sebastian's shirt, bunching the material up in his hands, and frantically tried to get closer, fill the ache in his chest.

He'd never felt so relieved in his whole damned life.

x

"I'm getting awfully bored of waking up in this room," Jim said before opening his eyes. With no response forthcoming, he sighed. What a dramatic moment, wasted. Taking stock of his surroundings, he noticed with pleasure that the dose on his painkillers had lessened. He certainly felt more clear minded and thank Christ for that.

He sat up slowly, propping himself up against the wall before reaching for his plate. Each pain was sharper now, less diluted, but he had the impression that he might actually be able to function through the brunt of it- at least do more than scream for hours on end.

The food he devoured, fettuccini alfredo with scallops from his favourite local place. No longer warm but still quite edible: the right choice all around. It was only a shame that he couldn't have his customary glass of white wine with it. Pleased, hunger sated, Jim stretched and slouched back with a contented noise. Answered with a soft groan, he blinked and leaned over the headboard to peer at the space between the bed and the wall.

He found Sebastian sitting there, his knees drawn up and his forehead resting against the corner of the room, apparently just waking from a long doze in an uncomfortable position. He winced when he moved, stretching his arms and his back with uncomfortable groans, gingerly straightening his legs, his neck.

"Hi," Jim grinned down at him, amused at the typical early morning grouch on the man's face- eyebrows knotted up, a full day's stubble on his face, his voice a low, disused growl. Personally Jim was a great, great fan of it, even if Moran was technically useless until his third cup of coffee, something he'd picked up overseas. Well. Useless professionally, anyway. They had their own ways of entertaining themselves.

"Hey," Moran greeted, that rumble Jim so liked. Sebastian averted his eyes- embarrassed to be caught keeping vigil, no doubt- scrubbed his rugged palms against his face until he looked more awake. Jim patiently watched his expressions cycle, smirking faintly. After a moment of frowning semi-alertness, Sebastian's eyes cleared, his mouth subconsciously forming an oval. Realization, Jim recognized. Easy.

Sebastian ducked down, reaching his arm under the bed. He came up again with a laptop in hand, clearly working to look casually bored.

Jim didn't comment on the man's awkwardness, too busy being gleeful as he snatched away the lightweight computer, settling it in his lap and turning it on without delay.

A few minutes later found him staring at his screen in disbelief. He looked up slowly, round eyes fixing on Sebastian. The other man had moved to stand on the side of the room, leaning on the wall with his arms crossed and a smug, satisfied smirk.

"What. Did you do?"

The smirk grew into a snarky grin. "I took your wifi card out."

"Why would you do that?"

The taller man rounded both eyebrows, the corner of his mouth twitching in mirth. "You're not supposed to work."

Jim glared at him but Sebastian only relaxed into the wall, decisively unthreatened. Irritated, feeling duped, Jim hunched down, typing as angrily as possible. Then he paused. "Did you..." Screen-bright eyes flickered up to the man holding vigil, narrowed suspiciously. "Did you seriously install Sim City on my laptop?"

"Maybe." The low, pleased drawl gave him shivers.

"Why?"

"I can't let you work, but even I wouldn't stand in your way making the world burn."

Jim glanced up again, watching Moran through his eyelashes. He felt the corners of his mouth twitch. Moran grinned in return, all sly and self-satisfied. It started with a giggle, bubbling hysterically out of Jim's throat- a minute later they were both laughing hysterically, Jim on his side and practically wheezing, Sebastian sunken to the floor.

x

When Moriarty woke, it was to the strange sensation that he was lighter than before, yet more substantial. He was thinking more clearly than he had for days. It took him moments to notice nothing was restraining his movement, not anywhere. "Oh my god they're gone."

"What're you talking about?" Moran grumbled, lying on the floor with a wet flannel across his eyes.

Jim rolled over, squirmed around until his head poked over the edge of the bed. "How dare you have a hangover while I'm bedridden."

"You're the one who got yourself injured just before my birthday."

"Oh, I'm terribly sorry!" Moriarty answered, sarcasm thick on his tongue. "Clearly I should've planned around your pity party."

"Fuck off."

"Shan't."

All of the various tubes and needles and wraps that had been attached to him were gone except for the cast around his left foot, and he had every intention of celebrating that fact. It was much more important than his subordinate's change in age, more than Sebastian's obstinate desire to lament his lost twenties.

He crawled down from the bed as quietly as he could, palms first, elbows second for balance and then his legs, creeping closer. He carefully eased himself above the man, poised to tear away the flannel, scream greetings in his ear.

Quiet as Moriarty could be, Moran's skills lay in exactly the right vein to ruin his plans.

His fingers barely brushed the edge of the flannel before he found himself on his back, a hand over his mouth. Moran stared down at him with dark eyes as wet fabric flopped down on his cheek.

Jim smirked against the man's palm, suggestively wriggling his eyebrows at the irate man, deliberately squirming against him.

Sebastian merely raised an unimpressed eyebrow in return, pinching Jim's nose between his thumb and forefinger. Deliberately keeping his body as relaxed as possible, Jim sat still, keeping firm eye contact. He always won self-control games, no question. Hs lungs started to burn. He tried, once, to suck air in through his mouth- useless. His lids fluttered involuntarily; Sebastian blurred around the edges. He moved, dragging his jagged, unkempt nails against the back of Sebastian's hand, pried at his fingers until he could get a good grip on his pinkie, bent it back until the other man let go.

He only had time to drag in a single large breath before Sebastian was kissing him, rough and wet and messy. They rutted against each other on the floor, bit and nipped and licked, scratched and groped and ground. "Fuck," Sebastian growled against the tender dip of his collarbone.

"Yes, please," Jim answered breathlessly, his head thrown back, groaning when sharp teeth sank into his shoulder, clever fingers plunging into his trousers. He hadn't gotten fucked in- oh, he had no idea, no clear gauge of time since he'd been in this room, since Sebastian had fucked with the calendar on his laptop before giving it to him- but if the way he was desperate for it now was any evidence, far too long and he was perfectly happy to go on the floor if it came to it. All he knew was that he needed it now, this second, and fuck, fuck, fuck yes. Now.

Sebastian went very still for no particular reason and, muddled with lust, Jim growled at him, gripped at his hair, tried to pull him back into a savage kiss. With a hand against his chest, Sebastian shoved him down sharply, reaching for his boot.

Jim registered it then, the sound of the door opening- a split-second later, Moran's knife lodged itself in the doorframe just beside somebody's head and it shut again with a slam, somebody swearing harshly on the other side. "Fuck my life, Moran! I can't believe you're still doing that shit!"

"Fuck off, Lauder!" Sebastian shouted back. Jim giggled and pulled him back down.

x

Jim woke up in the quiet night, only a faint haze of orange light sifting in through the blinds from a streetlamp. He sat up with minimal struggle, rolled his shoulders back and stretched his legs slowly, wincing at the pull of disused and healing muscles, sore from yesterday- if that was yesterday- and irritated that he had woken alone.

Some of the grating feeling recessed as he spotted a crutch leaning against the wall just beside his headboard and, instead of his habitual plate, a note on the side table that simply said 'get it yourself.'

Jim smirked at the yellow sticky for a moment before attaching it to the wall with a sigh, scooting down the bed until he was seated at the head, reaching for the crutch and transferring it to his left arm.

It fit snugly under his armpit but it felt unwieldy to try to stand with. It didn't help that his shoulder still felt the occasional twinge, or that his ribs ached steadily. He was far better off than he'd been the first time he'd woken. He hobbled his way to the kitchen, resting every few steps. Activity exhausted him quickly but he refused to head back to bed. He was going to take this chance to finally look at something other than the cracked paint and single table in Moran's undecorated room. Even if the rest of the single-storey flat was just as plain and empty, any sight would be better. Not for the first time, he wondered why he hadn't been brought to his own place- a nice, classy, expensive flat in the London high rise, with perfect climate control and the best furniture money (or extortion) could buy.

Oh, fine, yes, getting a man requiring hospitalization there might've been a bit troublesome, but really.

Jim made it into the kitchen in what he was ready to call decent time, panting as he leaned against the fridge, forehead pressed against the cool metal door. It was brighter in here, illuminated directly by the streetlight that had given the bedroom the slightest glow. Nothing near daylight but enough to navigate; wonderful to avoid a light-sensitivity headache. He stared at the oven's time display for a full two minutes before fetching himself a glass of water. The cool liquid felt wonderful down his throat, calming the niggling ache that threatened to burst into coughing. Christ, he hadn't felt like himself for- fuck, he thought, finally catching sight of the calendar he himself had pinned to the wall back in January- nearly a month.

A month, God, how was he still sane? For that matter, how was Moran? No, that answer was obvious. Seb wasn't. He never had been.

Jim grinned lopsidedly at the thought, lifting himself off the door to peer into the fridge.

Ugh, beer and meat. Moran was such a caveman it wasn't even funny. Yes, of course, that was part of what attracted Jim- a good looking man with a good arm and a good eye, muscular, agile, brash and, best of all, forceful: just Jim's type, really. He might've done with someone a bit smarter but you couldn't have everything. Sherlock Holmes was the best enemy cum peer a boy could ask for but he was really too terribly cold for Jimmy Moriarty. Although, if it really was true that he was as good at baritsu as Jim had heard-

But, no, the point remained; Seb was almost everything he liked in a man, at least sexually. It was just unfortunate that it apparently meant he had taste in neither food nor fashion. Destroyed jeans and long sleeved knit shirts, Christ, what was he, twenty?

Eventually he managed to locate some salsa. It was near its expiration date and had far more sugar than Jim would've liked, but at least it wasn't meat. He wasn't a vegetarian or anything, he just... wasn't big on steak and potatoes. He managed to find tortillas without much effort in the cupboard with Moran's ever-present Stash of Crap (jerky, crisps, low-grade chocolate bars, biscuits), snagging an almond chocolate bar for later.

He sat at the table heavily, staring out the window as he ate.

The lights came up about twenty minutes later. He flinched against the sudden onslaught, tensing. He hadn't heard anyone come in. He turned to find his associate leaning against the doorframe, casting an evaluating gaze over him. "You're up."

Jim blinked up at him in surprise, licking the corner of his mouth unconsciously.

Sebastian wore what he dubbed his 'work clothes,' the items Moriarty had personally hired a tailor for: slacks and button-ups to Moran's precise measurements, a thin black tie, a broad Florentine leather belt and ruby cufflinks. After all, when you were being Moriarty's right hand man, you better look expensive.

The splatter of blood against Sebastian's front, travelling up his left side and stark crimson against his crisp white shirt, had Jim mesmerized. The flecks of blood on his chin and just at the corner of his mouth only helped things. It really was Seb's colour, Jim thought hungrily, making no move to cover his sudden and full interest as he gave the other man a long look-over. "You've got red on you."

"Cute," Sebastian snorted, unknotting his tie and throwing it over the nearest chair. "I haven't had the chance to change."

"Don't," Jim answered hoarsely, eyes fixed on the other man's clever fingers as they undid his cufflinks, the top buttons on his shirt, his belt. He licked his lips again, finding his throat suddenly, unbearably dry. "Who'd you kill?"

Sebastian cocked an eyebrow at him. As though he got to kill anyone on his own whims these days. No, not without an order, that was the contract. Part of it, at least. "I didn't kill anyone."

"Really."

"Yes. Really." Sebastian swaggered closer, looping one arm over the back of Jim's chair as he reached across him to snag a piece of chocolate. Jim gripped the side of his chair, swallowing back what he was sure would've been a fairly pathetic sound. Moran smelled like blood and metal and sweat and Jim was unduly tempted to lick the half-dried residue glistening against the man's collarbone.

Sebastian sat on the table with a foot up on the edge of Jim's chair, ankle pressed against the other man's hip. He glanced down at Moriarty, dark eyes amused. Jim held his breath as he held Sebastian's gaze, fingers scuttling against his own leg. Moran's smile developed slow as molasses, dark and telling and oh-so-pleased. He leaned forward, voice quiet and low, drawling as he spoke. "I may have convinced Williams that attempting to take advantage of your temporary absence would be a great detriment to his, ah, business."

Jim stifled a groan, dizzy, pupils blown, tilting his head back. He very firmly kept control of his breathing, hearing the rush of blood in his ears. Oh god. "Oh?"

"Mmm." Sebastian reached out, traced the line of Jim's collarbone with his thumb, dragged his nails from the base of Jim's skull and across his shoulder blades, leaving red welts in his wake. Jim whined pushing himself up, eager for more. Sebastian laughed, reached down to wrap one arm around the man's waist, free hand under his thigh, and heaved him up into his lap, planting both feet on the previously-occupied chair.

Jim rocked forward, hands scrambling for purchase over broad shoulders and hard hips. Moran nipped at his jaw, dragged his tongue over Jim's stubble. "But I know how sad you must be that you weren't there to observe," he remarked casually, a puff of hot air against Moriarty's ear that had him shivering, groaning, "so..."

Moran reached away for a moment; when his hand returned, it was to slip a thumb drive into Moriarty's back pocket, taking advantage of the moment to squeeze Jim's ass. Sebastian tilted Jim's head back to stare down at him, grinned like a shark. "I made you a film."

Jimmy Moriarty shuddered against him.

x

When Jim woke again the next morning, it was with company and aching in new and wholly more exciting places. Sebastian dozed carelessly beside him, his broad frame taking up most of the bed. From that he inferred the time- somewhere between three and six, else Moran would've been awake, no question. That man was so dully predictable sometimes.

(Other times: not. Yes please.)

Jim sat up, eyes keen in the semi-darkness of night. He inspected the planes of Moran's back, lightly dragged his nails over the fading scratches he'd left across tan skin. Sebastian's ribcage rose and fell against the palm of his hand, tremendous heat rolling off the man. Jim stretched himself over Moran carefully, pressing his nose into the space where Moran's jaw met his ear, folding his hands under the other man's stomach.

The broader man grumbled softly under his breath, shifting slightly to accommodate the sudden weight, trapping Jim's uninjured ankle under his shin. Jim felt his muscles unknot due to the hazy warmth of having another body so close against him.

He wondered, vaguely, how it would feel to wake up to that instead of snapping awake to the eastern light every morning.

'Not bad,' he thought, falling asleep. 'Not bad at all.'

x

A sharp noise woke Moriarty. It took him a few moments too long to fight off disorientation; he realized the sound was, in fact, simply that of a kettle.

He sat up slowly, carefully avoiding putting pressure on his foot as he detangled himself. A pair of cotton drawstring trousers sat on the bedside table, a crumbled ball. He eyed the black and blue plaid with distaste before gingerly pulling them on. They were far too big for him, puddles of excess fabric around his ankles as he shuffled into the next room, leaning far more heavily on his crutch than he required.

Sebastian was sitting hunched over the kitchen table, eating his way through a plate of bacon, sausages and toast bigger than his head. Moriarty eyed the plate with disgust from the entrance, resting against the doorframe. Moran seemed unbothered by the high-pitched and constant whistle in his ears, munching away.

"Aren't you going to move that off?" Jim shouted over the din, probably louder than he needed to.

Moran shrugged, unperturbed. "Already had three cups of coffee today." He talked out of the side of his mouth, fork poised before his mouth, words nearly unrecognizable against the background sound.

"Oaf," Jim grumbled, clumsily moving forward to shift the kettle off the stove. A search through Moran's cabinet only turned up a nearly-empty box of Hasting's Earl Grey- if Jim remembered right, he'd left it there. Last year. Appalling.

Moran merely grunted, twirling his steak knife. And who ate breakfast with steak knives, anyway?

People who didn't own any other kind, apparently. Jim frowned down at the drawer he'd just opened. Not that there was any jam for the toast he'd wanted to eat, anyway. At least Moran had bread. Christ.

He turned around to find the centre of his thoughts staring back at him, playing with a lighter, unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

"Barbarian," Jim complained with a frown. Sebastian grinned brazenly.

Blatantly rolling his eyes, Jim sat across from the man and dragged the plate closer, nibbling on the edge of Moran's dry toast. He probably wouldn't mind the moment terribly if there was any real food here. Or furniture. Some sort of anything that made the flat look like anything more than a temporary safehouse.

"I don't know how you can live like this," he said for an opener, because how do you tell the man you're shagging that, two years later, actually yes he did very much like to wake up warm and lax in the middle of the night, tangled up in sheets that smelled like sex- and not only that but he would like it to be a common occurrence.

Especially since he'd never let Moran any farther into his house than the sitting room. (It wouldn't do for the other man to see the pelt he kept at the foot of his bed.)

"Like what?" Sebastian was still flicking his lighter from hand to hand instead of lighting his cigarette. Out of consideration for his employer, perhaps. Maybe. Hmm. That was a nice thought. Jim liked it an awful lot.

His smirk was perhaps more smug than it had needed to be. He waved his hands about vaguely, indicating 'everything'. Sebastian merely quirked an eyebrow, rolling his unlit cigarette between his lips as he leaned back, waiting for Jim to elaborate.

"For a start you don't have any butterknives."

"A knife's a knife. I don't have any salad forks either."

"Yet you have both soup and stirring spoons."

Sebastian shrugged one broad shoulder, slinging an arm along the back of his chair. "Not because I planned to."

Jim stared speculatively for a moment, taking a long swig of tea from his mug. It was stronger than he liked but Moran only had whole milk and Moriarty was quite particular about what he chose to ingest.

"You could decorate, at least."

"Not a decoration kind of guy."

"Your bed, for example. No pillow covers, no bedspread, I'm almost surprised you have sheets."

Moran rolled his eyes. He was starting to look annoyed. "A bed's a bed. It'll feel the same even if I had red sheets with rockets."

"Good furniture wouldn't feel the same."

"Good furniture is serviceable furniture."

Jim felt himself get antsy. He wasn't sure if it was because he was bored, or because Moran was clearly wanting to smoke, or if it was because the other man was arguing with him pigheadedly. His grip tightened around his mug, eyes narrowing as he stared. This wasn't at all going in the direction he had wanted.

"You could have the best furniture money could buy."

Sebastian snorted and looked away, knuckles white around his lighter. "I could, but what would I do with it?"

"Oh, I don't know, use it?"

"Or I could just use what I have."

"Oh my god, are you at all civilized?"

Sebastian's head snapped back around, eyes cold as he glared Jim down. The abrupt end to their sharp back and forth left Jim feeling more unbalanced than he liked. When Sebastian spoke again his words were acidic. "No. Is that news to you?"

Jim glowered back. "You know," he gritted out, words slow and hard, "I was trying to figure out why I never asked you to move in with me, but I remember now. Thanks."

For a brief moment, Jim saw a flash of something unrecognizable in the other man's expression. It was gone before he could categorize it; face carefully blank, Sebastian took his plate and strode right past Moriarty.

Jim stood up in a shot, grabbed his crutch and moved after the other man as fast as he could; by the time he reached the open window, Moran had already disappeared up the fire escape where Jim couldn't follow.

"Coward!" he screamed up to the roof. Sebastian's plate hurtled down past him and exploded against concrete three stories below.

Jim saw Sebastian once more in the ensuing hours of that waking period: the other man came in through the window, snatched up Jim's laptop and left again, computer in tow, slamming the door behind him. Neither spoke a single word, Jim staring in enraged disbelief and Sebastian refusing to meet his eye.

x

Fucking four in the morning and Jim would like to go back to waking up at a normal hour, thanks very much. His laptop sat next to him on the table. It took him a quarter hour to discover everything that was wrong with it. Sebastian was not particularly creative, especially not compared to Moriarty.

The wifi receiver had been pulled out again and his Sim City game had been overwritten. More importantly, his hard drive had been replaced; that or it had been wiped. If it had, somebody was going to die.

But waking up at this precise hour had one very specific advantage for the crime lord- his lackey would be asleep, without a doubt. Sebastian Moran was a creature of habit, and he had no habit harder to break than his sleep schedule, much to Moriarty's past grief.

But he'd take fucking pleasure in it this time. Oh yes he would.

Jim limped to the couch in the living room, staring down at Moran. The tall man looked uncomfortable on the barely-decent, too-small couch. He wouldn't be having this problem if he'd listened to his boss, but no- he had to be a stubborn, useless, mannerless monkey. Jim's lip curled into a sneer- in a flash the expression was gone, replaced by something cold and inhumanly blank.

He hoisted his crutch above his shoulder and brought it crashing down. He caught Sebastian on the shoulder, feeling the aluminium shudder on impact. He brought it up again, lips curling back in an animal's grimace, and brought it down- Moran caught it, his eyes slivers of darkness in the dim light as he stared up at Moriarty for a moment before wrenching the weapon away in one harsh motion that had Jim stumbling forward, fighting to keep his grasp.

He cried out in pain when he threw his weight onto his injured foot, crashing down on the couch (on Sebastian) with his knees. The larger man swiftly got out from under him, shoving him against the hard couch arm- the hit came before he had time to regain his balance, a sharp backhand that make his head snap to the side.

"What the fuck is your problem?"

"You are my problem!" Moriarty snarled, instinctively covering his face with his arms. He was rewarded for it by a heel digging into his side roughly. Jim lashed out with his uninjured foot, striking Moran's left hip. It seemed to hurt his heels more than it hurt Sebastian- the larger man rotated his hip back to account for the blow, snatched Jim's ankle in a lighting strike and pulled.

Jim shrieked more out of anger than pain, frustrated at being so easily overpowered. Sebastian grabbed Jim's left leg beneath the knee as well, dragging towards him- Jim hit his head against the wooden arm of Sebastian's sofa. He tried in vain to kick his feet out again but it was useless. One hand flew to the back of his head as he blinked out stars.

"My head, you fucking idiot, is fucking precious," Jim screamed, instinctively trying to pull his legs up to his chest now, to defend himself.

Sebastian snarled wordlessly, digging his nails into skin. Jim flailed and kicked and coiled but to no avail. A sharp twist caused his injured foot to connect with the table; he howled in pain, spine curving upwards, clenching his teeth against the aftershocks. Sebastian dropped his hold and Jim recoiled into himself, taking sharp, rapid, rhythmic breaths.

He didn't uncurl until the pain had receded, blinking moisture out of his eyes before glaring up at Moran through slits. The broader man had taken a step back and was staring down at Jim with a twisted mouth and furrowed brows, clenching and unclenching his fists. It was written all over his face as every emotion of his always was: guilt.

James Moriarty felt something dark and cruel uncoil from his gut as his mouth curled at the edges, his mind sparking with the beauty of destruction. It was there like a bloody bullseye, a great red cross painted on Moran's chest. Guilt.

He sat up slowly, unwinding into a relaxed posture, one arm draped over the couch. He glanced away, drumming his fingers against the textured fabric, thoughtfully licking the corner of his lips once before turning to Moran with a deliberate smile- the sort he used when he was about to make a demand masked as an offer, and you hoped for your own safety you'd realize the difference.

Sebastian hadn't taken his eyes off him. Jim felt a frisson of pride, of power. Moran was the stronger of the two, the more agile, quicker even, but Jim was the brain, the balance, the control. Nobody got to him, not without his say-so; he could twist them around his finger without so much as looking at them. And if Sebastian thought they were on even footing, then no. He had to be taught. Jim was going to shred him to bits.

"Remember," Jim started in a deceptively soft voice, sensuously dragging his fingers along the back of the couch, "once upon a time, you received a mission from a mysterious benefactor that had orders to kill your brother." He smiled at the memory, dark and fulfilled, drifting his thumb across his lips, staring thoughtfully into space. "You know, of course, that it was from me by now, and, oh, you were so beautiful." He glanced slyly at the other man, his smile widening a fraction, just enough to show teeth before it returned to its previous state. He watched Moran swallow, rock back on his heels, a wary expression on his face "I had the mission recorded of course- you didn't hesitate, you didn't look regretful, you didn't even look vindicated. He might as well have been a stranger. You were perfect, exactly what I was looking for." He curled his hands, dragging his nails against the fabric. He leaned his head back, exposing his neck; he lifted his hips a fraction, enough for notice. "You didn't care who anyone was, where they'd come from, where they were going. If someone for whatever reason landed on the wrong side of your gun, they were done. Ever so simple."

He looked again, smiled. He could tell Sebastian was nervous from the way the muscles in his jaw would bulge every few moments. He had every right to be.

Jim dragged his fingers down the column of his throat; it looked thoughtless, unconscious, a sweet accident: though it wasn't. His legs slid farther apart. He saw Sebastian take a step back, caught between caution and confusion. His large hands hung limp at his sides, fingers twitching for a cigarette he didn't have. He was so. Very. Easy.

Jim's eyebrows went up, lips curling into the smile of discovery he knew Moran recognized, the one he used when he told the man his plans, when he went for the big reveal.

"But me!" His voice was soft and high, an announcement, a breath of wonder.

It was like a ripple across the Sebastian's body. First his shoulders tensed, followed by his neck, then his spine. His hands clenched, his jaw, muscles bunching in his legs. Jim read the indecision, knew Moran wanted to flee and couldn't, delighted in his glorious victory.

"Oh no, not me!" his eyelashes fluttered, head rolling back again, fingers through his hair- throes of ecstasy. "You couldn't hurt me, not really, not seriously. Oh no!"

"Jim." Sebastian's voice was hoarse, uncharacteristically quiet.

He glanced up at the man, stared defiantly back into dark eyes with a cruel smile. "And it'll bet you my kingdom that the thought of me dead destroys you. You, Sebastian fucking Moran, king of the jungle, the man who killed his brother without even asking 'why,' you, sick at the thought of one poor bastard lying dead."

"Jim, don't you fucking do this," Sebastian snarled, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles were white.

"That is so fucking precious," he continued, a mad gleam in his eyes. He'd gone too far to stop now, they were too close to the edge, it was too fucking heartbreakingly perfect to end. Sebastian was taut as a wire and ready to snap, staring back at him with such a foreign expression Jim just had to push forward and see what it was, lash back. Hit with all he had. "It makes me want to break you. Maybe I will."

He smiled full of teeth and Moran flinched. Too delicious- Jim went in for the final blow. "It should be a nice, easy warm-up before I go for Sherlock Holmes, what do you think?"

In a flash Moran was on him, those large, tense hands wrapped around his throat; normally Jim might've enjoyed it if not for the mysterious expression magnified so close up, an ugly twist of Moran's features. It looked familiar, now, and Jim knew why he hadn't recognized it. Expressions were universal but he'd never thought he'd see this one on his subordinate's face.

Agony.

"Say you're fucking sorry," the man snarled, his voice all caught edges and hollow pain.

"Se-Sebastian," he wheezed between painful gasps. It was nearly impossible to speak- Jim couldn't even swallow. Sebastian's hands only tightened, eyes lit with a dark light- the soul of a tiger. When something hurts you, hurt it back.

"Beg for my forgiveness."

Jim struggled for breath, absolutely unable to utter a sound. He tried, in vain, to beat Sebastian away with his hands but he was powerless. He dug his nails in, scratched frantically at Sebastian's wrists, but the man only held steady, snarling.

"I said beg."

x

When Jim woke again, it was to patterned ochre wallpaper and sinfully soft sheets. Fighting down an irrational initial panic, he rolled over in bed, pulled thick pillows over his head, inhaled and exhaled slowly until his heart rate slowed back down. Sitting up slowly, he dragged his fingers over his face, lightly rubbing his fingers over facial hair that was too long now to be considered merely stubble.

He hadn't seen the inside of his own flat in a month now; having his own toiletries back and whatever clothes he felt like wearing should've felt wonderful, and yet he felt lethargic, even depressed. The stillness was eerie, the solitude of home he usually revelled in so much only echoing in emptiness. A vague feeling of dread overtook him, tread marks on his tiger-skin rug, aluminium crutch leaning against his headboard.

He moved through his morning routine in a mechanical silence, trying in vain to quiet the developing darkness that threatened to overpower him. He felt angry at feeling at all, and angry at Sebastian for causing this ache to rise in him. Jim Moriarty should never feel incomplete, especially over some solitary man, especially one so simplistic and unimpressive.

Jim swallowed down the lump in his throat, disgusted with himself.

He was being absolutely puerile about this; he could fix it in a second. A single fight with Moran and they'd be back to normal, he wouldn't have to feel like this anymore. (Was 'sorry' the word? No. Moriarty was never sorry about anything, he couldn't afford to be. That couldn't be it, no, he merely needed Moran to act at his will and for that he had to make- ugh- peace. That was all, nothing more, never.)

Jim sunk his head in his hands and took another deep, shaky breath.

How could people lie to themselves when it was this fucking difficult?

(He'd never made such a major mistake in his life.)

Snarling, Jim threw on his coat and stomped out of the door, eager to get this ridiculous thing over with. He drove like a demon, the smell of burnt rubber following him at every corner until he found himself at Sebastian's flat.

The door, though closed, was not unlocked when he reached it. Sebastian lived in an unsavoury part of town; easier to do whatever he liked without anyone in particular noticing that way, closer to the action. An unlocked door could have merely meant that somebody had broken in, but Jim found it unlikely. Moran's lock was far more difficulty to force than it seemed, he had arranged for it. Jim took a deep breath before stepping inside.

It looked the same as it always did: barely furnished, cracked walls in an undecorated room, impersonal. It didn't look as though anyone lived here but, then, when had it? He limped in the kitchen first because it was the easiest to start with. Finding nothing (no one), he moved for the bathroom. It was still stocked as always, same with the bathroom, but what did that mean? Sebastian didn't own anything he cared about, nothing he would chose to pack rather than leave behind and replace nothing-

'Oh,' Jim thought, suddenly feeling hollow. He suddenly, finally understood the appeal.

Squeezing his eyes shut, Jim forced himself to breathe, willing away the sudden debilitating pain in his chest. This was fucking ridiculous. He was freaking out over the lack of evidence.

He made it to the thirtieth digit of Euler's number before he managed to uproot himself, limping towards the bedroom. He moved gingerly, wary, grimacing. He wanted to feel angry but he only felt distressed. He wanted to feel angry about feeling distressed but it was useless.

He searched the bedroom with the face of an automaton, sank wearily into the bed that had been his prison for the last month. There was only one door left; while it lead to the smallest space, it was also the most dangerous, bound to be the most telling: Moran's closet.

Jim swallowed before forcing himself to his feet, slowly working his way back into the living room. He stared at the brass doorknob for a full minute before opening the door. He tossed each item of clothes aside one after the other, categorically checking them off the list of Moran's wardrobe in his head. The sniper's favourite jeans were missing, along with his dark green shirt and a pair of worn trainers, but that didn't mean anything- he was wearing them, no doubt.

Moriarty caught his tongue between his teeth as he leaned forward to pry apart the false wall- the panel that hid it fell from his hands. Absoultely still, Jim stared at the inside.

Every single gun was gone except for his, looking smaller than ever surrounded by empty pegs.

There was only a second object in the vault; Jim reached in to pick it up, holding it cradled in the palm of a shaking hand as he brought it to his face- it was a single ruby cufflink, gleaming sharply in the halogen lights.

Fuck.

Fuck.

"Fuck!" Jim screamed, throwing the tiny object across his room with all his force. The gun followed it, leaving an imprint against the drywall. He shrieked and shouted, throwing his crutch after them, battering his fists against the wall, fought and flailed and hated until he couldn't anymore, sank against the wall and curled up in the closet, his face in his hands. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

He was alone, now. Moran was gone, gone, gone.

x SIX WEEKS LATER x

Moriarty drove without looking at the speedometer, kicking up a cloud of dust taller than his car as he sped through the desert, eyes peeled on the horizon. He took a sharp right at an indistinguishably different cluster of rocks. Racing across flat-land, his tires screeched unhappily as he attempted to come to a complete halt before driving into the lopsided one-man tent hiked up in the middle of nowhere. Swallowing, he leaned his head against the wheel and breathed for a moment before sliding out of the car. He straightened his tie and his suit jacket, feeling distinctly put off and vaguely uncomfortable beneath it. Despite wavering resolve, Jim briefly rubbed his neck loose, adopting a posture far more relaxed than he felt.

He buried his hands in his pocket, reflexively tightening one hand around a ruby set in silver and the other around a flashdrive that contained only a single file, a film he had watched as much as he could bear, that had played in the background while he worked, while he slept.

He felt pathetic, tired. He looked the same as he always did, but he wasn't sure how well Moran could see through him.

He steeled himself, stepped around the tent.

He had to keep himself from making any audible sound or hitch of breath at the sight.

Sebastian Moran was in dirty jeans and a loose tee, dark aviator shades perched across his nose. He was sprawled in a folding camping chair, his favorite rifle is his hands. Jim watched as Sebastian loaded, aimed, shot indifferently- yards away, a beer bottle shattered into shards of green glass. The taller man sighed, squinting into the distance before laying the rifle across his lap, fingers skitting up and down the barrel.

The empty bottles around his chair were cheap, mixmatched brands, none of them empty, as though Sebastian had forgotten how bad the previous one had been before opening the next, getting half-way through, and abandoning it again. A quick glance at the tent showed the usual piles of blankets he used instead of an actual sleeping bag, though Jim found himself irrationally annoyed by the Las Vegas sweatshirt tossed haphazard atop the rest. "You've gone native."

Sebastian shrugged with both shoulders, hoisting his rifle up again- he shot but missed, a cloud of rocks showering the untouched bottle Moran had targeted. Jim pursed his lips, unimpressed.

Expelling the used shell, Sebastian tilted his head towards Jim a fraction. "What do you want?"

Jim swallowed, looking away. "Good help is so hard to find."

"Harder to keep," Sebastian answered hollowly, leaning down to reach for a new beer. He didn't find anything unopened; instead he took a long swallow of the one that looked least dusty, grimacing in

Jim tensed, defensively drawing his shoulders in. Sebastian wasn't giving him anything- he'd started taking his rifle apart, digging through a cardboard box by his feet for rags and oil without moving from his chair. He didn't seem willing to talk or listen.

Perfectly content to ignore Jim, stay out here in the Arizona desert with nothing and no one. Aiming for beer bottles of all the demeaning things.

The flashdrive dug into Jim's tightening palm, a reminder of what, exactly, he had to lose- more than a right-hand man, more than an intimidating mouthpiece. Sebastian knew what he wanted, knew what he needed. Was what he needed.

He was almost enough all by himself, and nobody else had ever offered Jim that, nobody else had ever wanted to try.

Jim ran his tongue over his teeth, rocking back on his feet. He looked like a bored businessman, tired of trying to make a deal. He felt like he would throw himself to the ground and scream until Moran agreed to come back- back to the job, back to him.

"Come back," he said with a shrug, looking over at the targets Moran had set up in a fit of mind-numbing boredom.

Sebastian snorted. "Why?"

"You must be bored to death out here."

He shrugged again, careless, a ripple of motion across his back, noticeable from the way his shirt molded to muscle. "I can find work anywhere."

"You call this work?" Jim sneered derisively, dramatically spreading out his arms, indicating the empty desert.

"I call this a vacation," Sebastian answered evenly.

Jim sank into himself slowly in the ensuing silence, staring at Sebastian even as the man refused to look back at him, impenetrable through his dark shades.

He wasn't sure what to say. That was the worst of it, really.

He'd never not known what to say. Sebastian had reduced him to this.

Sebastian had asked him to beg, then, but Jim didn't beg, not for anything. At least, he never had.

Exhaling a careful breath, Jim counted pi until he felt calm again. As call as he could feel, anyway.

"I need you."

Sebastian swore, a strangled, angry sound in the back of his throat, a bark of harsh laughter. "I'm sure you can find some other poor bastard to do your dirty work. Fuck, with you, you might even get him to lick your fucking shoes."

Jim swallowed against the rebelling emotion that threatened to rise out his throat and spill out. He had gone taut with restraint, warring against the desire to lash out, scream and demean and insult.

That was always the way with them: he'd destroy Moran with his words until Moran destroyed him back with his hands.

But Sebastian could leave- had left- and the wrong move meant that Jim would never have him again.

So he forced down his defensive offense, chained it up in his guts, closed his eyes.

"No. I- I need you."

He barely registered the sound of movement before he fell to the ground, pain bursting across his cheek, making his eyes water. He coughed, struggled to sit up for a second before Moran's hands closed around his shirt, pulling him up by the collar.

"You fucking bastard," Sebastian snarled, voice heavy and rough with emotion. Aviator's knocked askew in the flurry of movement, Jim finally caught Sebastian's full expression. His eyes were lined red, bruised-looking and sunken.

The gasp slipped him before he could stop it. It hit him sideways, that feeling he'd barely even understood, never recognized in himself, a mirror of Sebastian the last time he'd seen him, more terrible than he'd ever thought he could feel- guilt..

In his next breath, Jim found himself flung into the tent- an instant later Sebastian was over him, pressing him down. His hands were everywhere, kisses sharp and frantic, as fast as the fluttering heartbeat in Jim's throat.

Jim pushed closer desperately, clawing at Sebastian's back, scrambling for purchase. Sebastian snarled against his throat, sinking his teeth into Jim's shoulder.

Jim barely even noticed when Sebastian tore away his expensive shirt, sucking a mark into his collarbone.

"Sebastian." He gasped, jerking when the man's large, warm fingers gripped his hips, grinding down into him.

"I hate you," the man answered with a hitch in his voice, a low growl. "I fucking ihate/i you how dare you do this to me?"

"Sebastian, please," Jim whimpered, groaning when Sebastian's nails dug into his skin, rough fingers closing against his throat. (He hadn't had bruises anywhere on him since the ones around his neck had faded. He'd stared into the mirror for what felt like hours, eyes glassy as he traced the lines of his body in the mirror. Not a single mark on him for the first time since they'd started their whatever-it-was, and he never thought it would feel so very ibad/i)

"Say it," Sebastian snarled, dark eyes boring into his own, glasses gone. "Say it now. Say you're sorry."

"I'm sorry," he replied instantly, wincing. He wrapped his legs around Sebastian's hips, trying to pull the man closer, wrapped his arms around him, hands fisting in the man's short hair, aching to get closer, to melt into him. "God, Sebastian, I'm so fucking sorry."

Sebastian's mouth sealed over his, kiss demanding and intrusive and possessive.

x

When Jim woke again, it was shivering, the beginning chill of desert night sweeping into the one-person tent. Squinting into the fading light, Jim turned him head- Sebastian slumbered beside him, apparently unbothered by the descending cold, their tangled hands between them. Jim stared at Sebastian's fingers, dark against his own for a suspended moment, exhaling a soft breath.

Crawling closer, he moulded himself against the other man, relaxing as Sebastian grumbled sleepily and slung an arm around Jim's waist.

He breathed in the silence for a moment before bowing his neck, forehead pressed against Sebastian's sternum. "Move in with me?"

Nothing happened for a second, the pair suspended in silence- then Sebastian tightened his arm, snorting softly. "Idiot."

Jim smiled before he could stop it.


End file.
